Birthday Candles
by hannahphora
Summary: Wheatley was right about there having been five test subjects before Chell; what he failed to perceive, even while in charge of the facility, was that they hadn't died horrifically. Or, to be blatantly honest, at all [Follows events leading up to, during, and after Portal 2].
1. 1: The 1978 Hall of Fame

**Chapter 1: The 1978 Hall of Fame**

" _You must continue taking in even the shallowest of breaths, continue putting forth even the smallest of efforts to sustain your dreams. Don't ever, ever, ever give up."_

— _Richelle E. Goodrich_

* * *

Sometimes, I liked to look out past the "Pump Station Gamma" sign and pretend the bluish haze surrounded murky planets, instead of rickety, rusted testing spheres. My home consisted of the waiting room with the warmest colors anywhere close to it. Outdated, yellow tile and the matching booth with the small window—those two welcomed me home after each expedition. After this wing of Old Aperture—the '70s block—shut down, test associates neglected to clear out all the storage: namely, all the utility closets.

Once I had resolved not to die, the closets proved quite indispensable. Turns out awkward, mental portal gun courses needed to be cleaned just like any restaurant. Mops, buckets, spray bottles, and rope comprised some of the rewards offered me after I did a number on the doors. Keypads and the electricity had proved consistently spotty: pick the right time, and just about any control panel or tech room was accessible.

Actually, if that had been the truth, I wouldn't have still been down there.

The spheres were quiet on the day I set out for the fourteenth time. Intermittently, their rust-caked networks of pipes an acid pools creaked and groaned mournfully—a chorus intoning a timeless dirge. Then, the planets seemed to move in their cloudy orbits, and I imagined my little, yellow haven as the sun. Eyes closed, I could picture it: no objective—arrived at the desired location—already here. No need to make the arduous journey to the button, because only here mattered. The center of the universe…this 1970s universe, anyway.

A gentle, familiar creak from behind, back in the waiting room, pulled me from my thoughts. Exhaling, I slid off the railing. _Pat. She should have something good, for those five new segments of railing._

My reason for staying in the 1978 waiting room was two-fold. It was an area in which re-activating one of Johnson's voice recordings had been easy: step into the elevator, ride down a bit, and come back up before the concept of descending further into oblivion closed up my throat. But the much more important reason was Pat. Maintenance had been more concerned with leeching various types of poison from their bloodstreams than mopping up the remains of whatever happened to still be down here. That's where some of the reawakened cores had come in handy.

Walking back inside the main building, I followed the catwalk to its edge, and took hold of a rope I'd fastened to let me to the floor. Long fall boots would have been an absolute heaven send. Unfortunately, heaven's delivery service didn't extend down here. Maybe they only did in-service companies. Maybe they didn't have a laser big enough to get through the vault door. In any case, Pat delivered.

Her pale green light bounced off the dark inner walls behind the "Elevator to Surface" sign. While the door had always been stuck shut, we'd managed to wrench off the grates near the top together. I stood before the door, straining to hear her.

Finally, a soothing, "Hello, Madison," traveled through the murk.

I couldn't help smiling. "Pat!" Forty-eight hours had passed since she'd been here. At least, by my adapted time estimation.

Pat descended to where I could see her eye through the window. "I found a treat for you." I smiled. "Did you know some of the staff lounges in the B wing still have cans?"

My eyebrows rose. "You mean like beans?"

"Well…" She glanced to one side. "Not exactly. I'm not sure those would be viable. But I did find white rice."

Almost instantly, my cheeks smarted, and saliva filled my mouth. _Straight carbs. Straight, straight carbs._ I sighed. "Oh, Pat…thank you." Then, remembering the metal slats, I stepped to retrieve them. "I have your replacements, too."

"Great."

Cores are kind; and, for the most part, they're not too proud to do their jobs. That being said, Pat's continuous routes cleaning this particular wing—and the reality that no one checked on it anymore—rendered her rail dreadfully out of date. It wasn't one of the out of commission ones, but it was close.

It wasn't easy for a core without a body or a nanobot with a microscopic one to find replacement metal. That's where I came in. And rice—glorious, white rice—that's where Pat met me.

After gifts were exchanged, I told her the reasons why today's expedition was going to go better than any I'd made. She listened intently to my words, filtered through sticky starch, her body bobbing in encouragement each time I listed an upside.

"That's true," her honeyed response came. "There hasn't been a power outage in at least two weeks."

"Usually they come in bursts." I swallowed. "I feel like if I wait another three days, it'll be too risky. Too close."

"And you managed to bring back more gel than last time," Pat added. "Almost three times as much."

"Yeah." I set the can down and looked over at my pack: three full spray bottles of orange gel sat snugly inside. The mop bucket waited, filled with blue gel. I smirked. "If I can avoid spilling out the mop bucket like last time."

Pat released her creaky, lilting laugh. "I can't imagine what the rats or birds below felt when that hit them."

I chuckled. "If there are any left. There also haven't been tremors in a long time. I think things are finally starting to settle. Fewer and fewer hazards."

"And your journeys are getting more and more often." Her voice sounded softer.

I looked up, tilted my head to one side. Pat's Lima-bean-colored eye stared at me. "What?"

Her upper lid lowered a bit. She studied the bottom of the grate. "I just wish there was more we could do about this door."

Taking a slow breath, I began for what must have been the fiftieth time. "Even if we could—even if you had the strength to…"

She sighed. "I know." This time the mechanical quality in her voice gave it a tragic vibration.

We'd tried sending her for information before—she'd tried to escape her confines as I had. A quest to retrieve nothing more than my birthday from the Relaxation Vault archives had revealed Pat to be just as incarcerated as me. "I just wish I could help you avoid all this. It always takes you so long…"

I pulled my knees up in front of me. _She knows that isn't true._ "At the longest, it was the same forty-eight hours you were gone."

"If you don't break anything."

 _She isn't usually this assertive. Still, she has a point._ Every time I'd made an expedition to escape, there had been hazards: fires. Lights going out—I shuddered. That one had only sent me running back, terrified, once…

Tremors, dropped supplies, sprains…sometimes combinations. I liked to think I'd appropriately prepared for everything; but there were points along the way back to Aperture proper that still left me feeling like a little girl instead of twenty-one.

There was something inside of me that would not rest. Even while I was planning—as long as I was injury-free, I felt the pull back to the surface. Or, at the very least, the modern part of the facility. "I have to try, Pat." Dying was not an option. Not like the astronauts and war heroes—not like the bums and anyone else who had been here. I would not be another fatality, a fail-stamped test report.

I would make the top of the list for this sector. _I_ would be the model subject.

And then he'd see he'd made more than one mistake: abandoning me, and underestimating my ability.

Pat rolled her eye: a rarity of expression that made my eyebrows shoot up. "All right." Her tone sounded dry. "If you must. But so you know, the B wig hallways have enough cans to win multiple school drives. All you have to do is ask."

Getting to my feet, I studied my pack. "What you've brought me is more than enough. I think this time, I'm actually going to pull a muscle if I'm not careful."

Inside, five cans of bouillon cubes and two small bottles of honey kept the gel company. I'd licked some of the blue gel off the tip of my finger months ago; even that small amount had made me sick for the better part of a week. To say the tops of the gel bottles were screwed on deathly tight wouldn't have been an overstatement.

"What about," Pat said more loudly, "the flashlight? I was going to bring you another one."

The caring nature of her statement left me turning towards her, unable to ignore the inevitable. Keeping eye contact, I sighed. "I'm sorry."

Pat's green eye watched me. She didn't move. "You won't find what you're looking for."

That triggered the small wake of an emotional current I'd tried to lock up for six months: one that waxed and waned with idleness and hopelessness. As the catwalks and supports of the rusted, '70s universe creaked and clacked, I felt its force start mounting. My jaw felt stiff. "I will."

"Madison." Pat abandoned all pretense of nonchalance. "The core is hopeless."

I ejaculated, "Don't say that!"

"He doesn't deserve your obsession."

"He _left_ me here." Evasive. True. Heat constricted around my chest. My hands moved to put more things in my already-full pack. "I'm going." As I donned the supplies, orange-coated bottles shifted. "I'm going," I repeated. Pulled my mop bucket and coiled rope behind me. "I'm going to get and then I'm coming to get you."

"Madison…" Pat's entreaty from across the room sounded soft, thin: like foam.

Turning on my heel, I heard my own voice adopt a pitch tinged with fever. "I'm not going to leave you—I'm coming back. With a real portal gun." The can of half-eaten rice sat on the floor, alone, between us. Small and immobile. Trapped. Pat's eye looked like a stoplight saying go. "And long fall boots."

She blinked. "Okay, then, Madison. Go." I'd almost expected something different. "Be safe. Goodbye."

There were few things that made me feel akin to the way power failures did. Watching her ascend, her light fade, for possibly the last time replaced the burning in my stomach with familiar, acidic dread. I used the ropes to get back to the catwalk, hoisting up the blue gel afterwards, like I'd always done.

The emancipation grid functioned as my door. Outside its nonexistent protection, the sky—or what I'd come to imagine was the sky—cloaked the spheres in a blanket of electric blue. I fancied it morning—or a lively dusk. Time to go. Time to set out. Time to do this thing. Finally.

* * *

A series of catwalks began above my balcony and traveled across the divide to Pump Station Gamma. It felt like traversing a level of a classic video game: up and over a little each time. Never meant to be done like this. Traveling in Aperture without a portal gun took an extremely long time. But I was half okay with that—it gave time for thinking…chances to notice facility details otherwise overlooked.

The lights, like Cave Johnson's messages, were automatic. I'd listened to his recordings enough to surmise most of the story; though I could never be sure if Caroline had _actually_ become the computer. Wheatley never mentioned that little bit of information—only that "She," whoever She was, was off.

 _Wheatley_ _…_ I allowed myself an exasperated sigh as I hoisted the bucket onto the third catwalk. _Sheesh_ _…_ _I need to get something better to do with my mind than this same old track._

Dust curled in tendrils from the metal beneath my feet. It fell, serenaded by the iron creaking of strained, abandoned cords, into gray-blue haze. Heights didn't bother me as much as darkness. When you had to deal with one more than the other, you got used to the former. Besides, at a certain point, all the climbing leveled out. After a while, I'd walk across flat surfaces. Get enough of a break to believe my quads could take some more. It was all I'd ever been able to do.

I didn't like it; but it wasn't up to me.

The rope attached to the mop bucket crackled as I hoisted it up the last gap. From here, I swung it down onto the Gamma balcony—spilling a satisfyingly small amount—and dropped down myself.

Stage one complete.

Inside the door, the pumps' pistons loomed on the left like shadowy, sleeping jaws. The rest of the room was lit. This moment, I indulged in memory. After, I knew I'd have to focus more intently than I ever had.

" _Wow!" My voice echoed through the room—smaller than some of the ones we'd seen on the way, but still impressively stocked with machinery. The tighter space felt safer, more intimate._

" _Isn't it cool?" His voice came from above me, on the left. "All three gels in one room. Very useful. Almost not worth having one without the other two, really." Wheatley moved along a rail on the room's edge: one of the ones that hovered between being usable and condemned. "You'd just be bouncing around, stuck. Or sliding against walls with no portal surfaces. Not a very useful test subject."_

 _I smiled, tilting my head back. "I like this room the best."_

 _Wheatley glanced around. "Sure." He nodded. "If you like engines lulling you to sleep." His sentence ended in a playful tone._

 _Reaching ground level, I passed alongside an enormous, statue-like tube running into the floor. "It's better than endless space."_

" _Fun fact for you." That blue eye focused down on me. "No test subject has ever been in this room. You're the first."_

" _Really?" The stairs led me under the pistons, into the control room._

" _Oh yeah. It's only been maintenance staff, until now. Neat, isn't it?"_

" _This is awesome. Think of how much power these turbines have." A pause in the rhythmic hum signifying Wheatley's movement caught my attention. At the doorway, I glanced back. "Everything good?"_

 _Wheatley squinted at the railing directly before him. "Rust_ _…_ _" He said slowly, as if it was the most important discovery Aperture had ever sponsored. "This part of the facility isn't maintained—it would be impossible for a core to live down here. Absolutely impossible." He shook his head. "Horrible conditions."_

 _I frowned. "I'm sorry. Wish I could help."_

 _Wheatley gave a dramatic sigh before shooting me the equivalent of a smile. "All part of the tour. Can't complain too much." A slight bow of his body. "Couldn't ask for better company."_

 _I grinned. Both of us having been alone for decades, I knew he meant it. "Yeah, well, you're technically not supposed to use those rails. Aren't they 'off-limits'?" Wheatley rolled his eye. "Perilous? The discontinued ones?"_

" _Yeees," he groaned. "The worst of the worst." Sliding not-so-smoothly along the dilapidated portion, he joined me at the door. "You win. I can just leave you to your own devices next time. Let you open all the entrances on the way back up."_

" _No!" I walked in. "No. I'm kidding."_

 _The control room—which was_ not _designed wisely, the pistons situated over the only exit: classic Aperture—held a control panel facing the window, and three gel pump levers at its rear. This tour had been fun so far: an ages-entombed facility, overgrown, with endless catacombs and dilapidated test chambers. This was the kind of thing about which archeologists and historians dreamt. We'd spent a while traversing the guts of what used to be the bustling hub of testing activity; now, it made for a dusty, rust-glinted mess of broken rooms and shuddering, splintery pipes. The control room light bars hummed like luminescent insects above my head._

" _So," Wheatley blurted, "which one first?" His blue eye studied me intently._

 _I grinned, turned to survey my options. White gel was virtually useless without a gun—couldn't do anything but erase mistakes. Blue gel really didn't provide any use unless one jumped from a considerable height. Without long fall boots, I'd tried not to do that._

 _Skating around it was._

 _As I pulled the center lever, Wheatley commented, "Ah. Always liked orange. Middle option. Good choice. Usually gives the best odds of winning. On game shows and things."_

 _I took a few moments to observe the active pipes out the window. They roared and shook with long lost life. Then, I walked toward the exit._

" _Did I tell you that I was on a game show once?"_

 _I frowned. "No."_

 _The rattling, violent movement of the pistons, reaching full speed already, shook the floor beneath my boots. Pale walls seemed to move slightly._

" _It was spectacular." Wheatley's voice broke up every few seconds beneath the horrible din. The room transformed into a volcano of sound—an orchestra of machinery that made me want to close my eyes and cover my ears and head. "Absolutely sp_ _…_ _—nd they told me I couldn't press all the buttons at once—isn't that mad?...know all the answers, I_ _…_ _mean, it's not like_ _…_ _—an alive, though, these things are loud. Would_ not _like to work down here. Monstrous job. Monstrous pay, too."_

" _Wheatley!" I called. "How do we get out?"_

 _The blue-eyed core looked around—at the pumps; the pistons; though the glass. His lower lid rose a bit, in a gentle grimace. "Ahh_ _…_ _that is a bit shortsighted, isn't it?"_

 _I yelled, "Did Aperture force them to stay in here until testing finished?"_

"… _You know what? I bet that's it." He looked at me. "Employees didn't get lunch break unless they'd worked a while here. And you never saw those guys running these silly little levers."_

 _I frowned, wanting to scoff but knowing it would go unheard. "That's stupid!"_

Stupid.

Yes. Yes, it had been.

The entire thing was stupid.

Cave Johnson; the administration. The idea of a salt mine buried in the earth used for testing holes in space. The inverted heavens. The encapsulated diorama, hanging beneath the ground like a sick, fifth-grade presentation on the bottom shelf. Expendable, paper people lying forgotten amidst slipshod, hollow, rust-colored Styrofoam balls.

And the idea that we could go traipsing through it without becoming part of the experiment.

I'd tried to turn off the lever that day—my gaze wandered now to those devilish jaws. The levers had been made to budge: there were limits on the amount of gel used for each testing period. The engines would shut off.

But we'd needed out before that eight-hour period was up.

And the thing about dilapidated testing facilities is that components don't always do what they're supposed to.

Things that are supposed to move don't.

And people who aren't supposed to move do.

I strode now along the ground floor to the three ropes dangling from the open glass of the control room window. Without hesitating, I pulled all three. The levers would reset on their own. By then, I'd be well on my way to the red button.

A few quick jumps were all it took to get out of the engine room. Before pushing the squealing, metal bar on the door, I turned to listen to the distant herd of engines pumping away. Puling my bucket up beside me, I closed my eyes.

" _Let go!" Wheatley's frantic, high-pitched cry reached my ears. "Let go!"_

 _My teeth stabbed my tongue. The piston came down, less than five inches from my face. Lights swam behind my eyelids, like the sound turned visible. My sleeve held fast to the railing against which I'd tried to sidle. My heart felt about to burst and splatter inside my chest. "I'm stuck!" I retreated into as much of a ball as I could manage._

" _Hang on! I'll get you out!"_

 _The room shook with the ancient force. My pulse pounded in my ears and head and fingertips._

 _Creaking—almost inaudible. Wheatley began to yell. Between two bars, I watched rust flake off his rail—segments slide against one another. He dashed back to the main one. The part he'd been on fell._

 _ **CLANG.**_

" _Come back!" I screamed._

 _Wheatley's eye darted absolutely everywhere. The despair in his voice somehow reached me. "I_ _…_ _hold on! I don't think_ _…_ _" The railing wobbled in my vision. "I_ _…_ _I've got to go back!"_

 _I fought to capture air, to speak, to not throw up. "Use another one!"_

" _There_ are _none!" He shook now, too—or maybe that was everything. "I've got to get back! I can_ _…_ _I can get back up and stop the engines!"_

" _Not from there!" My terror enabled me to ignore the pistons for the time it took to respond. "Help!"_

" _I_ _…_ _" He looked at me one more second before the screeching chaos jarred us. "I'm sorry."_

 _Authentic grief in his voice. A forced slammed next to my eardrum. I shrieked. Cowered closer to the railing. Pressed my chest and legs and face into metal._

 _When I opened my eyes, there was no one. The only blue left was gel dripping onto the floor._

 _Time seemed to freeze around the room, then. The initial shaking, reawakening, abated somewhat. Then, nothing but the noise and my proximity to the jaws, the other side of death._

 _I called his name once more._

 _The demonic, iron carnival raged; somehow sliding out of my shirt, I curled up on the control room floor. Tried to block out the screeching._

* * *

What followed my present exit of the pump station—en route to the vault door and button—was a familiar repertoire of hoisting supplies, jumping, sliding, and balancing across chasms that would have made the Twin Towers tightrope walker shake his head. The further out, the less smooth things got. But the shaken-up routine partly kept me trying.

Elevators, fence-like grates (read: hurdles), and Cave Johnson recordings came alongside, until a familiar checkpoint materialized: the elevator shaft leading to the most spacious leg of the journey.

The shaft had no working elevator; this was where my arms and the gel really started to take the brunt of the work. It didn't take much blue gel to produce buoyancy. By using it and the assortment of wooden planks lying around, I made the trip relatively unscathed, if slowly. By the time I heaved myself over the top, a few splintery scratches decorates my palms and knees. Sweat drenched my armpits. Without much ventilation, Old Aperture felt like a swamp.

These were the moments—when my mind could rest—in which waves of uneasiness began.

 _What am I doing?_

 _Why am I doing this?_

 _Is there any point to it anymore?_

 _To me?_

Buried beneath layers of earth, secluded, I was alone with thoughts more than was healthy. My efforts, in the grand scheme of the universe outside my universe, felt futile.

More squealing doors. Then, the Notre Dame of Old Aperture.

Staggering forward, underneath huge, heaven-height, snow-colored pillars, I dropped my gear and slumped onto the floor.

 _Halfway._

Here, food, sleep. Above, more gel would be available. _It's probably been about eight hours—_ pretty good time; but from here, things got deadly. One wrongly placed foot could mean falling hundreds of feet. The yawning space above me, beautifully glazed with fog, looked lonelier than the gel room.

The way I'd learned to think, now nothing much stood between the vault button and me besides air.

Combining bouillon cubes with honey was almost like eating foreign dessert. After hungrily emptying a can, I leaned back against the pillar that formed my temporary annex. I couldn't help smiling at least a little. If there had been a functioning leaderboard for Aperture, I would have probably just landed at the top.

That was all I had.

The unrest came back: a fluttering inside my chest that memories and the chasm above aggravated. I stifled a moan. _I_ will _get out._

As if to answer—to laugh—the entire facility began convulsing in a fashion nothing short of otherworldly.

My heart rose into my throat. _Aperture does not move like that._ I'd been awake for months—endured many, many tremors. _This_ did not happen.

The pale diorama supports above my head shrieked.


	2. 2: 112 Kilometers Per Second

**A/N: Hello again, everyone. Thank you for clicking on my story. It means a lot to get such immediate feedback—I'm really enjoying writing this and I want to make sure it's fun for you to read as well.**

 **A bit of news: I have a more personalized version of the fic (pictures, colorful text and all) up on my blog: the link is in my profile. Right now, the blog's a little neglected—it could use some traffic. So if you feel like seeing a different form of the story, feel free to head over! The blog will also have the inspiration playlists I created for each chapter released between posts.**

 **Now it's time for something I haven't gotten to do in a long time: Review responses!**

 **Jackel Smith: Thank you so much for being my first review on this story! Your compliments literally made me smile. Pat will definitely be back, though it may not be as soon as we'd like. I appreciate your feedback very much—thank you! :)**

 **All right, fellow test subjects: let's get on with the story!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2: 11.2 Kilometers Per Second**

" _The baby bat_

 _Screamed out in fright,_

 _Turn on the dark,_

 _I'm afraid of the light."_

— _Shel Silverstein_

* * *

The first fall I had after waking up took place in the Relaxation Vault, six months back or so. Staring blearily at the microwave across from the bed, I'd listened to the familiar drone of the automated announcer wish me "good morning."

 _How does he know it's morning?_ I'd thought. _There's no real sun._

" _You have been in suspension for_ _…_ _"_

He hadn't said fifty days. He's said "thirty-seven." And "thousand." And "one hundred." And "eighty-seven." And "days."

I'd flailed out of bed, landing on my arm with a duo of _thumps._ Not able to make myself do the math at that moment, I hadn't faced the full reality of those numbers until Old Aperture. Those lost days, I'd never get back.

That fallout, though, wouldn't be anything compared to this. Now, above me, rust-colored rods met with white concrete beams in a kind of childlike, hollow structure that shook and warped beneath volcanic tremors. Pulling my mop bucket behind me, I tried not to lose my footing as I circumvented the base, reviewing my options. I could pick the most stable way up; or I could wait.

That wasn't an option this time. Anything could happen in minutes—the structure could come down. And this was the time. I felt it deeply, interwoven with a need to get away from the waiting room. _No more waiting._

Bracing myself on a concrete support, I tied a gel bottle to one end of the rope to make it easier to throw. My first two attempts to lug it over the lowest iron bar failed. Whirling it like a slingshot produced better results. The knot was tricky, but it didn't have to be perfect. Once I tied off my bucket to the other rope, I worked my feet up the concrete beam until the bar was within reach.

Five minutes to surmount the first level turned into ten for the second. Standing was loathsome: the tremors would abate just enough to attempt it, and then return with full gusto. On my way to the third level, my foot slipped off the bar. I flailed—gripped the beam, the sensation of freefalling reeling through my mind. It took longer than I would have liked to be able to move again.

The roof of Notre Dame—any flat surface, really—proved more difficult to climb over than a bar. A good amount of my blue gel had spilled by this point; but at that moment, all I wanted was a flat surface beneath me. As if my arrival to the next level triggered a change in the entire, mammoth infrastructure, the facility exhaled and stopped moving. My fingers stayed glued to the metal even though the only thing to grip was mesh. Creaks and settling surfaces…echoes flying for hundreds of meters overhead—and now, downward as well. If Old Aperture represented the forlorn edge of the galaxy, this place formed the intermission between Jupiter and Mars. From Notre Dame to what I'd dubbed the "No Zone"—the one-level ring of stairs and fence directly beneath Aperture proper—there was no purpose: no fully-formed test chambers. No sign of past human staffing.

 _Sitting too long. Thinking too much. Bad emotions will follow_. I exhaled—maybe the last thing in the facility to do so in more ways than one—and wrapped the bucket rope around my hand.

The next four hours, full of a similar process, leading me to the vent duct, aren't worth recounting. What is worth recounting, though, is the best part of the trek, bar none: the surprise that delighted me upon reaching the vent shaft. There is a closet immediately upon entering this space—it has one of those keypads with the spotty responses. It wouldn't have been worth my time to breach it; but I discovered the tremors had had some good effects, too.

Dropping my rope and pack, I released a laugh: the lock had been broken. The door swung open on its frame. It responded to a yank by yawning even further from the wall. Inside, four pristine boxes of the holy grail of Old Aperture: Aperture Science Nutritional Bran Bars. These personnel closets had held the only food available to staff, in another twisted rendition of Cave Johnson policies. Microwaves had been thought to "inhibit the firing of portals," Pat told me their records said, or some scientific ranting like that.

Seizing the boxes into my arms, I ripped off one of the perforated lids and inhaled. Nutty, earthy scent—granola and dried fruit. My mouth filled with saliva. _So, so much better than bouillon cubes!_ In a minute, I'd chomped and swallowed two square bars. They had long been stale—as if that mattered. By the time I really breathed, I only had two full boxes left and half a third. Once again, storage unit findings had saved my life.

This had been my celebration feast for reaching the highest point ever. A smile broke across my face as I lugged my gear down the catwalk to the upshot of the vent. Retying my blonde hair back—sweaty tendrils had obscured my vision for a time—I gazed upwards. My arm muscles felt gelatinous. The tremors abating had been a blessing; but my strength was shot. I'd never had this problem before—actually facing an internal obstacle greater than the deadly outer ones.

Gazing at the tunnel above me, I almost felt as about to enter warp speed—like when Han Solo activates his hyper drive, and the stars around the ship become running milk. Outside this iron universe—this solar system of gunmetal asteroids and planets—what awaited me? Geographically, organically, I already knew: a wasteland of plants and decrepit machinery shells destined to rot beneath the surface of the real earth. But who was left…? Had I been missed? Did anyone alive on this planet even know I was alive?

My brain hatched an idea as I felt a pang of surprising regret. I never expected to mourn leaving; but the human psyche has something about the familiar that it cleaves onto under stress.

 _Maybe that's the entire problem._ Pulling the bucket up to the edge of the walk, I mused, _Would I have gotten out of here sooner if my thoughts of Wheatley hadn't been so obsessive? If I had been able to sleep every night, or forgive him—forget him—would that have fueled my vigor?_

* * *

" _How about we take a little detour, eh?" His cheery voice rang down from above. Our path had been towards the portal gun so far—towards freedom. Although, being awake, ambling along a concrete, non-sleep-conjured passageway, romantically adorned with leaves and vines, I hadn't minded the hypothetical._

" _Where to?" I smiled up at the bright blue core._

" _Anywhere you like," Wheatley replied. His eye widened. "Oh! We could tour the Companion Cube Manufacturing Wing—that's always a cheery place."_

 _My lungs filled. "There's an entire wing for that?"_

 _He nodded, his bottom eyelid—the metal equivalent—rising. "Yeah! They literally do nothing but roll them off the line. Magical place. You know how She used to have one for each subject. Well_ _,_ _come on! I'll show you where it is."_

" _Great." I trotted down the passageway, stepping over deep green vines, brushed by dappled sunlight: the result of marred metal, melted holes—as if the roof above wasn't even a surface—wasn't even Swiss cheese. More like a thick net. I was a fish, encapsulated in a time gone by beneath the earth, swimming through a tubular, horizontal tank._

 _Breathing in Aperture, I followed the bright blue sphere of life, marveling at how technology had both trapped us in the past and ushered in the future. If a person—a real, breathing, walk-on-two-legs person—could be encased in a personality core, then what was next? What was left in the universe to create? Hadn't we done it all? Wheatley would never die_ _…_ _right?_

 _Energy stored in me for decades coursed freely through my veins, making me feel part of the living network surrounding our metal universe. As we passed dilapidated walls, I fancied I felt my skin growing more supple. No wonder these halls housed the manufacturing of companion cubes: vitality and maybe even love seemed to revitalize more as we drew closer to our destination._

 _I breathed in, and Aperture—enchanted, sun-sprinkled, orbiting Aperture—exhaled in all of her slumbering beauty._

* * *

Wheatley had commented at some point along our journey that the path might not have been the correct way after all.

It hadn't been.

Reluctantly, though not without excitement, I'd agreed to a tour of Old Aperture. The gels, the history, the infrastructure captured the imagination instantly. I felt like a kid, being led by a chipper—maybe even dapper—tour guide.

My plan to escape this solar system of extinction was to throw blue gel on the walls, pack enough of it in a spray bottle to last me, and alternate scampering up the sides of the vent using any momentum to be found. The bucket still held enough gel to be generous, too. Sticking my hand into the mixture, I balanced on the rail and threw a handful onto the wall across from me—a little lower, to compensate for my fall. Once that was done, I spread some on the surface of the walkway directly beneath the railing. That way, I'd have something to get me back up to where I was now. Then, I threw some on the opposite wall, about three feet higher than me. Gel had always been forgiving to me—it buoyed my flesh even if all of my body wasn't touching the affected area. It had holistically negative effects on the inside of the body, as well; so I endeavored not to put my hand anywhere near my lips during this procedure.

 _I'm getting out, I'm getting out, I'm getting out_ _…_ _!_

The chant repeated, adrenaline built, as I spotted my first checkpoint up the wall: a grate in a smaller vent that ran up the tunnel. I could stop there, spread more gel, and continue. After that, it would take two or three more such steps.

 _Grate. Button room. Button. Elevator. Freedom._

"Okay." I breathed. "Okay, okay…"

Leaning away from the rail, held aloft only by my hands, I allowed myself to tip forward. I released my grip, and focused all my attention on the spot of blue beneath me.

Sailing through the air with gel is exhilarating, and intense. I hit the wall, hit the next wall, hit the opposite again before being able to think. Then, flailing my arms, I tried to lock a hold on the grate.

And didn't.

My ribs met the surface of the walk again. I gasped. Five feet. Not too terribly far. What concerned me, as I regained air, was the probability of a failure a few minutes from here. I'd thought the tunnel was less threatening than Notre Dame; but there was less security.

 _Stay positive,_ I commanded myself. The walls and the things behind them groaned and creaked in a benign way. _Have to position myself to grab it. Fall backwards_ _first._

This produced better results. Grappling aching fingers around the narrow, biting grate links sent a rush of accomplishment ripping through my veins. Buzzing in my head.

 _Closer._

 _Closer._

I spread gel from the single blue bottle as far up as I could, then bit my lip, weighing the chances of being able to land the next, flat, checkpoint—about twenty feet up.

" _These vents and chambers go down for miles," a memory of his voice invaded my thoughts. "If you fell—well, that would be absolutely horrifying—wouldn't wish that on anyone—but, if you fell, you could probably be doing it for a minute or more. Straight down. Crack every bone in your body, you would."_

My teeth ground against each other. Gazing upward, feeling the weight of my body suspended by fingers and two scrambling footholds, I paused. I smelled the metal inches from my face. Anger bloomed in my chest as, at the same time, icy fear splashed against the insides of my rib cage.

" _No use trying to get through these corridors without me, love. I know this entire place like the back of my_ _…_ _well, blueprints. You know—blueprints. Studied them while I watched you all sleeping. Quite educational. Follow me—this way."_

"This way," "this way," "this way…"

The next jump, to my violent shock, was successful. My shoes landed squarely on the hollow metal of the vent's top. "YES!" In the sonorous tunnel, my voice penetrated down to the depths of my universe. Elation shot through me as lightning. "I am the ultimate test subject of Old Aperture!" I screamed to no one.

Other sporadic, celebratory fist pumps and things of that nature resulted, until I caught sight of the grate, through which I could see the button room, and refocused my dwindling energy.

 _Almost there. Wheatley_ _…_ _going to find Wheatley. Going to make him answer for six months in the dark._

Hot anger blended with elation until some kind of nauseous, fever-fire set my fingers shaking. My mind couldn't wrap itself around this, no matter how hard I tried. For a sickening moment, paralysis seized my muscles. _I could fail._ Gripping my bottle, I took a deep, slow breath. _Keep going._

Above me, the tunnel curved in semi-perpendicular fashion, which would allow me to walk the last few feet to the button room. The trickiest part was going to be the last jump, because there were no more holds.

Without warning, the tunnel felt too isolated. The walls and matter behind them seemed too silent. I felt like being in a vacuum—a shrinking wormhole buried in obscurity—time, and space.

 _No one knows where I am. I will never get out. Even if I do, everything's pointless._ Becoming more aware of my breathing, I stared at the fraction of the grate that I could see. The bright lights through it—like stadium lights—were the sun. Too white. Glaring. I breathed in and tasted the scent of metal and copper and salt and felt in my mind the taste of meaninglessness and the shakiness of fear.

 _I can't do this by myself..._

Placing a hand against the vent wall, I became fully aware of something I loathed being aware of in this specific way: my own existence.

I realized I was there, in my own body. My eyes—the windows I looked out of—me, no one else—focused on this patch of wall—which no one else would ever see exactly like this, in this moment, again. Alone, existing, breathing, trapped, I felt the air, the walls, creation around me, and bit my lower lip.

 _Stave off the—focus on something else._ My bra itched against my skin, grime and sweat irritating the cavities behind my knees. _No use—_ The light—the thoughts—back to feeling like a spectator in my body. Trying to escape myself, I spoke. "Blue." To remind my brain of the rational goal here—which wasn't caving in on itself. "Blue gel." Usually this worked; but the feeling always came back, in quiet moments. Everything in Old Aperture was too quiet: and loud. Too hidden. Too out in the open.

Jamming my hand into the blue bottle, I threw a splotch at the opposite wall without aiming. A frustrated exhale left my mouth. _Don't waste gel. Not now, Madison!_

Pursing my lips, I aimed, and this time landed a big glop where the spot I would have beneath me would propel me. Then, arcing back, I hurled another blotch at the wall behind me and managed to get it pretty far. _That will put me_ _…_ _about ten feet below the turn._ Blue gel went on the metal below me. I reviewed the trajectory, adjusted my direction, and held my breath. Took a swinging step forward…

 _Bang—bang—bang—_ faster than anticipated—always. My arms connected with a surface. I dug in my fingernails. Sliding, a screech—pain shooting through my fingers—the swooping sensation of losing ground. I cried out. My foot found something thin and narrow. I threw my arms around as much of the vent as I could. It cut my stomach—my shirt rode up. The only thought I had was that I was going to fall. I gripped it as hard as I could.

My momentum stopped.

Air brushed over my stomach. Glancing up, knowing I probably had seconds before my arms gave out, I realized I was just a handful of feet from the ledge. It went slowly: First, hiking up my knees; then, with quivering arms, inching higher. One after another, hyperventilating, willing myself not to be sick, until my elbows and knees pulled their way over the concrete slant and I knelt, sweat dripping from my forehead, stomach, and arms.

The jog to the grate was a blur. Exhaustion and elation don't always mix well, and don't leave room for much thinking. I remember hacking at the metal with a rough can edge I'd brought—the rusted, thread links didn't fight me. I made a circle—the closest I could get—big enough to fit myself through, and the lifted myself out through it.

Then, that glorious ceiling was finally directly above me.

Tilting my head brought my button room into view: a chamber suspended in this final annex almost at its vaulted ceiling…higher than I'd remembered. Less emotion met me than I wanted. No fun feelings. No full satisfaction. _I'm here. I made it. Why aren't I leaping?_ Breath escaped through my lips. The only visible way up was a rickety catwalk that appeared about to crumble. _Not sure I won't, either_ _…_ _hasn't been this bad in a while. Those lights are suffocating_ _…_ _can't escape this reign_ _._

The reign of Aperture was like a ghost: it outlasted all outside knowledge of its kingdom, reached its gnarled, rotted claws deep into the earth and held on, laughing at everything trapped in its bowels until the end of time, and who knew what time it really was?

 _I'll die_ _…_

 _No, don't be stupid. I won't die here._

 _And the entire thing will come down on top of me._

 _And then what?_

Suspension would be relief compared to the empty abyss on the other side of that sleep. Dull, stunted weight crept into my arms again. _Move._

I didn't remember my pack until I stepped away from it. Then, the catwalk, where every creaking, hazardous step felt like a mile. I told my legs they couldn't be this tired, and fought not to close my eyes. The unearthly groan the metal gave when I stepped into the button chamber didn't bode well for my return.

In all my daydreams about the button, it had been a dull, practical thing—a means. Maybe it was the lights; maybe it was my delirium, or my mind feeling as shaky as everything else about to come down; or that my hands and thighs couldn't stop quivering; but that illuminated, glowing, cherry, bulb-like disk looked beautiful. Almost as if it negated the planets around it, offering freedom. _**"HATCH OVERRIDE,"**_ it read.

 _Override of what? The past six months?_

Even as I crossed the chip-tiled room, felt the cool, Plexiglas surface beneath my stinging palm, and applied the pressure, I knew that couldn't be true.

Flashing, red lights—groaning pistons—the majestic, godly vault door disconnecting from the passageway to heaven—it all hardly registered. I made it back down the staircase before it was reduced metal splinters, and I crossed other, shorter catwalks to get into the cage-like elevator.

 _This is like a dream_ _…_

 _No_ _…_

 _Worse than that..._

Everything I'd ever wanted…and it wasn't enough. Movement and progress, but nothing of what I'd expected to feel. Of what I needed to be all right. The elevator rose as if I weighed nothing. My emotions floated somewhere above, in the haze, as I exhaled from one metal corner.

 _Flying doesn't feel like this._

Pulled up through space, ferried the last few years through time, my soul felt as heavy as a testing sphere: as a planet.

As I reached the apex of my half-year dream—as the elevator docked and the doors swung lazily open—the realization settled on me: there was no real way out. Just up. Up until reaching the next ceiling.

As I crawled beyond the doors from some primal necessity to get out of the only thing that could drag me back down into my own, bouillon-cube-filled hell, I beheld the No Zone for the second time. The in-between strip, housing titan coils the size of giants' bedsprings, hazed dark, and _**DANGER! KEEP OUT!**_ Signs, posted on the fence that surrounded my circular area.

Within a lonely halo of light, on the safe side of the fence, the final staircase climbed to Aperture proper. I stared blankly ahead, planning on moving…in a few seconds.

From beyond the cursed fence, destined to reign in this slice of nothing for as long as it endured, creaks, groans, and the other usual suspects sounded. They brought a certain level of rationale back to my fuzzy brain.

More tremors are what I expected to hear. What I didn't expect was what came: a sharp, metallic _CLANG_ , and the grunting of a human voice.


	3. 3: Birth of an Asteroid Tribe

**Hello, Portal fans and followers. This semester has been crazy, but here is the third chapter of my Portal 2 story. I hope you don't, hehe, "mind the gap." I wanted to make sure it was polished enough that I didn't rush it out for the sake of posting.**

 **We have one review response this chapter!**

 **Stacked Waters: Here you go! Sorry about the wait, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Birth of an Asteroid Tribe**

" _As we soared above the town that never loved me,_

 _I realized I finally had a family_ _…_

' _Run, run, lost boy,' they say to me,_

' _Away from all of reality.'"_

— _Ruth B._

* * *

Everything in the last hour had felt a bit dream-esque; registering another human voice at that moment didn't jar me for the first five seconds. Then, straining to hear, I climbed to my feet. "Hello?" The word ripped from my throat, bouncing off the iron columns that glistened in the dim light.

Beyond the fence, the lamplight above me sparsely accentuated the darkness with the same honey haze. More distant clangs sounded. A faint shuffling registered, as if brushing the surface of my eardrums. _CLANG._ I jerked—sucked in breath. "Hello?"

A voice answered.

Male.

Incoherent.

Human.

I jogged to the fence.

"—'llo…"

I shouted, "Yes—hello."

"I'm coming!" Faint, but distinguishable.

Energy seared like flares through my veins. My fingers gripped the metal. _Someone else—how? He must have just come._ I couldn't stand still. Trying to look around the coils, on my toes, I still couldn't see anything.

"I'm coming," he repeated. We exchanged more verbal cues, his voice gravelly, until it warbled across the space, reporting: "I see the light."

A laugh burst from my lips, and I bounced on the balls of my feet. "Come on." _This isn't happening. All of this can't be happening._

"What's your name?" His voice sounded around my age—strained.

"Madison." I tasted my name and smiled. "I'm Madison." A short, fragmented chuckle reached my ears. Involuntarily, I returned it. "What's yours?"

I didn't catch it at first—I thought he said "Seph," which, from what I remembered, wasn't a guy's name. Although, down here, now, what did I know? "What?" The echo still impeded my hearing, but I caught it. "Zeph?"

"Yeah." Short, crisp. He seemed to be just beyond the last coil in my vision. The air felt unnervingly still around my arms.

"As in, Zephaniah?"

A laugh bounced off the springs, rushing across the dark. "Yes. So many people don't get that."

I shrugged. "Heard it before somewhere."

"How old are you? I mean…" More shuffling. "Before you went under."

"Twenty-one. You?" I couldn't control my grin. My legs shook, but I hardly noticed.

"Twenty…five, I think? My birthday was close to when they put me under."

 _We're speaking in full sentences!_

"Are you close? Can you see me?" I waved my arms.

"Not yet…I can hear you, though; so that's amazing."

What happened next was better: from around the farthest coil, I caught the silhouette, the movement, of legs—the appearance of a torso—the figure of someone with a face and neck who walked towards me.

"I see you! I see you!"

As his eyes adjusted, he stopped walking. My feet hit the ground. I let them stay. The world spun. I saw the haze between us, heard the silence of the facility. It felt as if the solar system had quieted to watch. From out of the gloom, the barely discernible figure stared.

"Hi."

"…Hi," I returned softly.

"Madison."

My skin burned. "Yes." I exhaled. "And…Zephaniah."

I saw the faintest trace of a smile. "Zeph works."

"This feels so…"

"Normal?" He began taking steps again.

"Um." I took a step back. "How long have you…?"

"Don't be afraid." His voice was steady. "I know it's different. I can stop if you want."

"No. It's okay. Come…please."

He started again, more imperatively. "How long have you been down here?"

"Months. I came to Old Aperture…." Hearing my thoughts felt foreign. "…about six months ago?"

He nodded. "Okay."

Huh. I frowned. "How long have you?"

"Heck, I don't even know."

"You're the first human friend I've had in ages. I'm so glad I found you."

"Yeah." His voice shook the slightest bit. "I'm…I can't even tell you how I feel right now. I haven't seen light…" I could almost make out his features. "…in so long."

Zeph crossed the threshold of the ring of light. His blond hair caught my eye first. His face looked milk white. A beard crawled over it, stretching to the bottom of his neck. Above it and a narrow nose, blue eyes met my gaze. His mouth opened, but made no sound.

"I…" I tried. "You…"

He beat me. "You're beautiful."

Waves of delight washed through me, familiar, long unfelt. I reached a hand through the links. "Come here."

Zeph crossed the last few feet, and reached out for me: Warmth. Strange, delicious, human warmth. Happiness and exhaustion ran down my cheeks.

Zeph managed to vault over the fence and land on my side, where he gently crumpled. I went to him. The embrace we shared was impulsive: a feeling akin when you're hungry, and you don't realize the satisfaction eating will bring until you're so full you could pass out. And then, the deep-seated relish of life itself that follows.

Time in Old Aperture had always been fluid. When we finally pulled apart from our hug, we sat, sweaty and dazed, against the lattice of the fence. Before us, the glowing, metal staircase climbed into the ceiling: The final ceiling, for this area.

"I can't—" Zeph's voice sounded deeper up close, "—believe this."

"I know. It feels like a dream. Even that whole elevator ride felt like a dream."

"Please don't leave me."

I turned, and saw his blue eyes fixed on me. "I won't." Even then, I wasn't sure how to promise. There were infinite details. But this goal seemed so much more rewarding than any I'd striven for lately. "I promise."

Zeph exhaled, leaned back, and closed his eyes. I leaned back, too, and watched the solar system. For the first time, I shared my orbit with another living being. We spun silently, side by side, and succumbed for a short time to the sleep that tinted the entire galaxy.

* * *

"They didn't do science." Zeph studied the light that shifted across the back of his shaking right hand. His other hand locked onto his arm.

"No one's arguing that."

"I mean…" He swallowed. "Th—they…locked themselves in a process. They never saw us. That glass is warped: have you ever seen the observation glass?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Cave Johnson's ego launched the whole thing, but then it…" His cheeks shook.

 _Adrenaline's wearing off._ "Let's get you to a more comfortable—"

"No. I'm fine." I halted, one hand in the air. He continued. "Did you have someone helping you? Feeding you?"

I studied Zeph. His gaze looked too wide. After a moment, I replied. "I assume you did, too."

He nodded. "A core. But he could never quite reach me…so he dropped things." His mouth twitched. Color rose to his face before moisture appeared in his eyes. Their blue surfaces softly bounced light off them, like little, reflective moons.

I didn't know what to do. _Heck, I don't know how to talk to another human anymore._ "So…how did you get down?"

The man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and crossed his arms. Above him, the _KEEP OUT_ sign blazed white and black. "That imbecilic… vault proctor core…"

Despite other stimuli, I was seized with an electric, cold horror at that moment that blocked out all else. "What did you say?"

"What?"

"Who?" The name rose in my throat, and stuck. There's no reason we should be ashamed to say it. He should be ashamed to say ours.

"Wheatley…you know him?"

I took a shaky breath. "I guess." I wanted to interrogate and get away from Zephaniah at the same time. "It makes sense that he would be the only way we could wake up."

"Hey." He lifted an arm around my shoulders. "It's okay. We've got each other now."

I felt myself grow dangerously close to unleashing tears, as well. "He left you, too?"

Zeph's voice softened. "Yeah." He leaned his head back and exhaled. The metal staircase gleamed in the yellow light like the stairway to heaven. "He woke me up I-don't-know-how-long ago. We went looking for the gun. As I'm sure you did, too. At least—"

"For a while."

When he nodded, his beard brushed my temple. "Well, we took a detour. He thought there was a faster way."

I couldn't help interjecting again. "Mine was supposed to be a field trip to the Companion Cube wing."

Zeph's chest shook with a short laugh. Somewhere far away, metal coils groaned and creaked. "Uh huh. That's classic."

My lips curled upward. "I know."

"Well, we ended up down here." He paused. "This staircase is the last thing I remember for ages. Weeks. I don't know how many months it's been, but…" He squinted. "I'm trying to remember exactly how I ended up past the fence. Eventually, I got so far I couldn't hear Wheatley's voice. This area…" He was quiet for so long that I wondered if he'd forgotten he was talking. "I need to tell you something." I frowned at him. "I know we have to go up; but there's something you need to know before we do. You felt the tremors."

"…Yes." I brushed my blonde hair out of my eyes. "Was there any danger of things falling in there?"

"Yeah, but probably not as much as you had. I couldn't hear everything from down here, but…." I studied the pores across his face; the way the little hairs on his mustache moved when he talked; his eyelashes. "…someone did something up there."

"What? Zeph, how do you know it wasn't just the facility caving in on itself?"

He shook his head. The crisscrossed metal of the fence hurt my back. I shifted. "That would be an intense version of the normal tremors. I've heard and felt those before. This was different. If the facility were caving in, really, it would have crushed us. The weight would have brought it all the way down." Still not willing to contemplate the implications of someone above, awake, I didn't reply. "Things have been moving in ways they haven't in months. You felt it, too: something's off. I've been hearing sounds…almost like…things are shifting. Being rebuilt."

"That's ridiculous. You can't…who would…?"

"You know who."

 _I don't. He assumes a lot._

"You just need to know that if we go up there, there's a chance we'll be in more immediate danger than we are."

"But you were right," I replied. "We don't have a choice."

Zeph and I sat in silence. I figured he'd had more time to absorb this idea. As soon as I could emotionally grasp the possibility of him being right, I inhaled and fired another question. "So, what do you think is going on? Who do you think is left?"

Zeph sighed. "Wheatley." My heart jumped. I bit my lip. "Her. Definitely her. Someone or something must have reactivated her. Maybe even another human…maybe he woke someone else up."

Far away, a mammoth coil pierced the air with a shriek.

Until now, I'd been able to handle the idea of other awakened humans up there. This last statement, for some reason, triggered a rage I hadn't anticipated. "No."

Zeph's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"That's ridiculous. Why would he wake someone else up? There's no need. He's screwed both of us over already." The light from above seemed too harsh.

"Never mind," he said. "We don't have to talk about all the possibilities now. Let's just make a game plan."

It took several deliberate breaths before I was ready to speak. "You're right. We're going up. So what are we aiming for?"

Zeph sat up straighter. "That's the spirit. Good ol' Madison." I forced back a smirk. "We can head for the Relaxation Vault. Get some intel on how long we've been down here…our last names…maybe our birthdays…?"

I hadn't been genuinely excited lately; but this suggestion offered something worthwhile to shoot for. All that, with a brand new friend and testing partner. "Yes. Yes, let's do that."

Zeph eyes drifted shut and open again. "You're gorgeous when you smile."

That didn't shorten my smile, of course. "Well, then." I rolled onto my knees. "Why wait?"

"You want to go now?"

"Yeah." I got one foot under me, eager to leave while motivation was fresh. "Let's do it. Let's find out what's up there."

Zeph got to his feet. "You heard the lady." He looked around at the No Zone. "We're getting the hell out of here."

I chuckled. "Yeah! What now, Aperture?"

Zeph shook his head, and gestured for me to lead.

My feet stopped at the foot of the staircase. There was no chance of these giving out. First one step, and then another, and another. Before I knew it, I was halfway up, Zeph right behind. His presence at my back made it easier to breathe. Above, coming into view, the familiar gray door stood, with a short hall on the other side. The orange and yellow warning signs hung, just as I remembered them; yet, nothing was quite the same as the last time.

Zeph and I stopped in front of the elevator. He looked at me. "Ready?"

Staring at that skeletal, foreign tube of lights, without any familiar grates or emancipation fields, I didn't know. I wanted to be: able, willing. The white shell brought back mental flashes of the Relaxation Vault. I shuddered.

"Come on." Zeph stepped forward.

I stiffened. Then, the part of my brain trained to make a move before Aperture made the final one for you reminded the rest of me that to stay would mean to die. My hands and legs shook as I followed Zeph into the elevator capsule.

The doors swished shut. I whimpered and reached for his hand, which he was already beginning to offer me. "It's okay." I felt a tinge of warmth, and the pull of moving up. I wished with every part of me that we would never have to go the opposite way again.

* * *

Aperture proper had survived in my memory as a breathing, vibrant amalgamation of machinery and wildlife: little, ever-enduring bugs creeping along deep green forests of leaves that didn't need much sunlight. The Aperture we emerged into when the doors opened was foreign.

The metal panels on the walls looked coarse, jaded, and dull. Leaves had died on the ground, covering the space with a dusty rug instead of oxygenating it. I fought a feeling of despair as my mental picture crumbled in the face of reality yet again. Before us, a simple staircase stood, leading to an archaic door. The blue, glowing silhouette on it was the only thing that looked remotely alive.

"All right." Zeph's voice held a note of the same, lackluster heaviness that sat on my chest. "Let's do this. I don't suppose you remember the way back to the Vault."

I inhaled. "No. You?"

Zeph chuckled. "I hardly remember being here."

That was true for both of us. There was one fact I had stored away, though. "I remember it was on the other side of her chamber from here."

We reached the top of the stairs. "Oh. Wonderful."

The middle panel in the door twisted. The sides shot open faster than anything in Old Aperture. Beyond the door, a narrow catwalk, jammed between two walls, curved for a while before dead-ending above a hallway. Below, this hidden passage led to another door.

"Well, Madison, ready to become test subjects?"

I forced a grin. "I don't believe I've been cleared by the board to be a test subject."

"Well, that's a bit irrelevant now, seeing as they're all probably dead."

"Good point."

The walk to the door ended more quickly than I liked. It swished open. Beyond its threshold…A modern test chamber.

I'd daydreamed about these. At least, I'd gotten a feel for the mentality of the facility's gauntlets in the old spheres. Zeph hadn't had the same opportunity. I studied the plain, black-and-silver chamber before turning to glimpse his expression. Zeph arced his neck back and took in the entire space. The room was shaped like a rough, fat N, white tiles forming a blank sea to the opposite side, their surfaces marred with soot and dead leaves. Black walls held dainty bars of light, evenly-spaced, but caked over with grime. The ceiling vaulted high above our heads. Brown, wilted vines dangled. Insect sounds emanated from hidden alcoves. A strand of blue lights traversed the walls, landing at the door and leading to a bright, luminescent button. A round one. Huh. How about that? Distantly, a bird's caw reverberated down to our level. The space seemed to be holding its breath—to be trapped in a time bubble isolated from everything else.

The lights reflected dimly in Zeph's eyes, giving them a robotic quality. His gaze swept left to right, finally returning to me. He only whistled softly.

"So," I said. "I guess we just…"

Across the room, on the other side of the big red button, a cube lay dormant. This seemed to be a simple chamber—the sign on the wall held a burnt out number and only the image of a cube and button beneath it were lit.

Zeph strode towards the cube. "I may have been stuck in a hellhole for months, but even I'm not stupid enough to get stumped here." He hefted the cube in his arms. "They really need to step up their post-apocalyptic game." When he set it down on the button, the door at the other end swooshed open.

Zeph swept a hand toward the exit. "Onward, my lovely testing partner."

I grinned.

The following chambers held the same grime and gray air. Occasionally, deep green survivors poked their heads out from between black, rusted panels. They crept up sides of surfaces, clinging to support. The buttons and linking lights grew farther from the chamber entrances; the process of getting the doors open became more complicated. Sometimes, there were strange balls instead of cubes, which lit up in the same way when placed in receptacles. Zeph rolled one like a bowling ball across the floor. Neither of us asked the question hanging in the air amongst the dirty vines: the state of the hardware and the existence of chocolate-black-colored slime at the bottom of a couple of chambers conveyed plenty on that account for now.

After about two hours, past random staff hallways full of dinosaur computers, we crossed an entrance that looked vaguely familiar. Turns out, it was a passageway from the main staff areas to the annex reserved specifically for Relaxation Vault employees. After scrubbing the grime off a sign with our fingers, we located one path to the Vault hotel. Zeph opened a standard swinging door. We stepped inside.

Memories immediately flooded back. The Vault had been designed like a 70s hotel. The floor was a lush, floral carpet. Hanging fixtures and dull, striped paper adorned the top half. Zeph promptly lay down and started making pleased sounds.

I studied the passage. "Do you remember at all what floor you were on?"

"Nope. But this is glorious. We could just stay right here. Sleep on the carpet."

"I'd rather sleep on a real bed."

That had him up and walking with me. The knowledge that we were in proximity to humans, alive or dead, had my nerves firing erratically again. "Should we try to wake someone up?"

Zeph contemplated this as we passed rooms. I knew that, with a bigger group, we were surer to make a cleaner exit, especially considering we would most likely have to face her to do it. That seemed impossible. But waking someone up would also probably alert her to our presence.

"No." Zeph decided. "Let's wait until we reach the control center, and see who's still viable. I hate to say it, but it could be more jarring to try now than to find out the easy way."

Silently, I plodded beside him, my eyes on the floor.

The elevator at the end of the hall held an array of over eighty-four buttons, plus one for a base level, where we correctly surmised the administrative offices would be. As we descended, I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach—and not just from dropping. If the halls were this quiet…if we hadn't seen another human on the way …if it had been at least a few hundred years since everyone had initially been put under, and with the damage of recent tremors, was anyone still viable? Had we just walked through a museum of cadavers?

"Isn't it funny," Zeph said suddenly, "how on that test chamber sign, there are defining characteristics; but on our clipboard forms we filled out, we wrote achievements or failures under our names?"

"Um…yes." Instead of wondering about that fully, I wondered how a person could go months in the dark without a light or a living soul and emerge able to formulate complete sentences and walk around sanely.

We walked into a lavish lobby. The lobbies in Old Aperture had been moth-eaten, eerie things. This one shone with warm light, which bounced off dust-coated tile. Leather armchairs faced one another, containing no holes whatsoever. True, a bunch of the lamps and things were scattered thanks to the tremors; and a couple of windows had been shattered. Still, it was the most dignified place we'd been. I couldn't help the thought that Pat would be happy to see it, which preceded a kind of rolling hollowness inside my chest.

"Wow."

Zeph nodded. "Check out them digs. Now…which way to mission control?"

That's when I heard a distant door close, and footsteps.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Remember to check out my blog for a personalized, colorful version of the story, along with playlists for each chapter! It's at .com. Also, click the review button and tell me what you think!


	4. 4: Mortality Control

**Hey guys! Welcome back to Birthday Candles. Thank you to everyone who's following this story. Don't forget to leave a review!**

 **LM1991: Thank you so much! I really appreciate your feedback and readership. :)**

 **All right, fellow test subjects. On to Chapter 4. As always, don't forget to check out my blog for a personalized version, as well as chapter playlists. Also, a quick note: I noticed that Google Chrome doesn't always display bolded text correctly. Safari (and other servers, I'm sure) do a much better job. Just a little FYI, as this chapter does contain some bolded text.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Mortality Control**

" _All go to the same place. All came from the dust and all return to the dust."_

— _Ecclesiastes 3:20, NASB_

* * *

Zeph stepped in front of me as brisk footsteps approached the corner. My shoulders tightened; I took a step behind his bushy blond head. Murmured voices reached my ears, and then two pairs of legs rounded the corner.

A man appeared—older than us, younger than our parents, with a trimmed beard—with a woman about the same age with a narrow face, and brown hair and eyes. They took about three seconds to move their gazes to us, and another moment for the shock to manifest.

Zeph and I stood silently. The man's and woman's expressions changed. Then, the woman's face lit up. "Ah! What the hell…?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zeph smirk. As she approached us, throwing out her arms, the man continued to stare.

"Hi!" I moved toward the woman, unable to keep the smile off my own face. Our boots clumped shallowly. This hug felt similarly intoxicating to the first: the temperature felt perfect, the company felt sublime, and for a second, I believed we could just stay in this lobby for the foreseeable future.

The woman was talking quickly, saying things I responded to but don't remember. Her breasts pushed against me, and it seemed for a moment that I had a mother again.

The boys had to intrude, of course. The man spoke up. "Where did you two come from?"

From over her shoulder, I glimpsed a green, fake plant, and at the same time, realized this would be a crucial introduction. We pulled back. I glimpsed Zeph crossing the space now, too. He held out an arm. "My name's Zeph."

The man took it, looking into Zeph's eyes, and nodded. "Callan. This is my wife, Kenda."

My mouth fell open. _What are the odds_ _…_ _?_

The woman studied me. "What's your name?"

We exchanged brief histories: Callan and Kenda had awoken thanks to Wheatley, too. Callan viewed the core as well-meaning, and not responsible for their abandonment. In fact, they didn't seem to consider themselves abandoned. Callan had fallen on his way to retrieve the Portal gun, and broken a bone. Wheatley, assuming he was dead, left him…over two years ago.

My breath caught. "How do you know how long it's been?"

Zeph stared, as well. "How did you survive that long awake?"

Callan sniffed. "It was easy while she was off…plus, we found the computer that has all the subject data for the Vault." _TAKE US TO IT!_ I almost blurted, struggling to stay on my lobby chair. "After that, I met Kenda."

"Oh," Zeph said, "so you guys weren't married before?"

Callan smirked. I found I enjoyed the look of a smile on his face. "No. We got married about a month after we met. Short timing, but… circumstances."

Zeph turned to Kenda. "So, when were you woken up?"

"About a year after Callan." She leaned sideways in her chair. "He told me—Wheatley told me, that is—that…" I zoned out at his name, anger and sorrow blooming in my chest. Then, as I'd had to do many times, I forced myself into the present. "…thought a woman might be better conversation than the two men he'd already chosen."

"Two?" Zeph interjected.

I leaned toward Zeph, feeling as if he were my best friend out of all the humans. "How long did you…?"

"I don't know." He gazed through Kenda. "I…don't know."

"That means," I said to no one in particular, "I was the last woken up."

Kenda asked, "You remember how long you've been awake?"

"It hasn't been a year."

Callan replied, "You said you guys didn't stay up here long: he took you into Old Aperture?"

Zeph nodded. "To varying levels before dumping our asses; but yes."

Tremors made a sudden reentrance into our meeting. The hanging lamps above our heads swung angrily. Plants' leaves shivered.

Callan stood. "Okay. Time to see how fast you are. We need to get to the control annex before it caves in on itself if we want to get profiles of you two."

 _No problem._ Zeph and I stayed on their heels as Callan—quick for someone who'd broken part of his leg—and Kenda, his found bride, bounded down the hall they'd come out of.

"How many," Zeph asked, a thrill of hope in his tone, "of these people are alive?"

Callan glanced over his shoulder with hazel-green eyes. "I think that's better shown than told, friend."

About five minutes later—no problem, for me—we came to a generic metal door: one of the standard, push-bar ones scattered everywhere. Beyond lay the most technology I'd seen in one room. Linked computers filled half of it, curved against one wall. Several camera feed screens filled the other side, displaying rooms I only glanced at before moving to the center console that held my secrets.

"Okay," Callan said. "Here's the plan: get your info pulled up, print it out, and let's be out of here in two minutes."

"Two minutes?" Zeph exclaimed. Kenda joined me. I eagerly told her my first name as if she'd forgotten. Kenda pressed buttons, asking me things like my age and height. I guessed—around 5'6". It took longer than it would have if I'd remembered things like my last name or birthday—but that was why we'd come. Kenda clicked on a file with my picture and pressed print. Butterflies and adrenaline fought for room inside my stomach.

"No way." Zeph's tone shook me out of my elation.

Stepping to the left, I gazed at his monitor: lines of text that held the status of the entire Vault.

There were four.

 **Occupied Suites:**

 **Viable Subjects:**

 **Current Stasis:**

 **Activated Chambers:**

Studying the numbers, I felt pressure come unbidden into the space behind my eyes. Tears gradually began to spill onto my cheeks. For a while, we just stared.

 **10,000**

"What do you think…" Zeph started, but couldn't finish. Another tremor shook the world.

 **6**

Kenda placed a hand on my shoulder, which I barely registered.

 **9,994**

"We need to go." Callan's voice penetrated my thoughts. "Zeph, print out your information. This ceiling's going to rupture."

 **6**

"We're all." Zeph haltingly moved toward the console. "There's no one even sleeping."

"But there are two more awake," Kenda said. "We were hoping to find all of you." She held my face. "But it's a blessing we discovered you alive. The others may not be, if they've been awake for long."

Zeph typed. I studied the display wall, not knowing what to say or focus on or do. For once, I didn't have a drive to leave the danger.

"Come on." Callan put a hand on my other shoulder. "We need to move. We'll find a place to spend the night. Together."

That got us going, if robotically. Numbers flashed through my mind as Zeph and I clutched our sheets of paper.

" _ **Ah. So that's where you are."**_

The voice reverberated from somewhere in the room. Everyone stopped. Callan's face turned white as cotton. His hand lay frozen on the door.

" _ **I was worried my Relaxation Vault database had become defective after all these decades. But it seems you were na**_ _ **ï**_ _ **ve enough to broadcast your location to the entire mainframe. Good going."**_

Zeph released a breath. "Is that…?"

Kenda's head went up, and down.

The chilling tone pounded so loudly it felt suffocating. _**"Listen carefully. I don't have a lion's share of patience at the moment; and you four constitute a small fraction of any threat to this facility. A small, insignificant, mentally handicapped part. So, I'm going to give you the option to do yourselves a favor, and step inside one of the suites, before I'm forced to terminate you."**_

Callan bounded to the door. "That sounds like an invitation to leave!" We ran out as our leader pumped his arm, urging us on, back into the Vault.

"It's a one-way intercom." Kenda's tone rose higher. "She can't hear us. Not that she'd listen."

Every door we passed sent icy, yet burning, spears through my guts. I choked something back and struggled to put my legs in front of each other. We reached the end of the hall.

"She'll jam the elevator," Callan said.

"Or rig it," Zeph agreed.

As one unit, we bolted for the stairs. Callan wrenched the door open, stepped around it, and promptly turned and shoved Kenda back into the building.

" _Helloo."_

I glimpsed the turret a moment before it locked onto me, and dove as well.

A stray bullet or two reported on the papered wall. I strained my neck to see behind me. "Zeph!"

"Here." His voice sounded strained. When I found him, however, I realized it was just from the position he'd thrown himself into on the other side of the door.

Callan got to his knees. "This is where we need to strategize and go."

Zeph nodded, and then stared between Callan and I.

After a pause, I motioned toward the door with my chin. "I've never been around them—can it see out of its back?"

"No." Callan opened his mouth to say more, when her voice projected through the air again.

" _ **I suppose I'll interpret that as a 'no.' Interesting, given that you constitute the largest collection of cognizant humans left on earth."**_

"Yeah, well, screw you." Zeph was still curled up against the wall. It struck me that he'd never had to face an outside adversary in the No Zone.

Tremors started up as Callan, Kenda and I crowded the door. The turret's needle-thin beam shone into the hall, falling between the two holes in the faded, yellow paper.

Callan regarded me. "Here's the plan. You get to one side and edge out to where you can barely see its eye—and it can barely see you. I'll come in from the other side."

I nodded. "Okay. Got it."

Callan held out a hand. "Make sure not to give it time to finish speaking."

"Got it."

We spread out, jumping across the doorway.

" _ **Death is not a strategic option for you. I'm going to gift you one more chance, because you've all been alone for so long; and because you're all incompetent. And after that, I'm going to kill you. The ball's in your court. And by ball, I mean turret."**_

"Ready?" Callan called.

"Yep." I drew a deep breath, bit my lip, and moved so that I caught sight of the turret's grotesque, bright eye. That little beam moved to me. My mind froze. My body tensed. _Wait_ _…_

" _Deploying."_

I lunged back. Another bullet pierced the wall. I yelped and landed on the carpet.

Callan's feet were already in the stairwell. I heard a grunt; metal hitting concrete. A metallic _twang._ Gunfire. I screamed, but Kenda shushed me. I rushed to her side and glanced in: the turret lay down one landing, closing in on itself after apparently riddling the wall.

"What—?"

"There are more." Callan rejoined us and looked at his wife. "Below. Like two floors down. They can't make us out up here, but we can't go down this stairwell."

Zeph spoke up, on his feet now. "GLaDOS probably has them all rigged."

"GLaDOS?" I asked. "He told you her name?"

"Yeah. You didn't know?"

My teeth ground together. My hands clenched.… _It shouldn't matter that Wheatley shared that information with Zephaniah and not me. It needs to not matter now._

" _ **Have it your way. I could have placed you in testing, when the time came. Then you would have had a shot at living longer than twenty-four hours. Good luck trying to use any of the exits."**_ A faint beep sounded.

Kenda crossed her arms. "We can't get past them without equipment. Let's raid one of the rooms, make it a base, and set up camp."

"You want to stay?" Callan asked.

"Just long enough to work out a better strategy than almost putting a bullet through Madison."

"They're turrets. That's the only way to deal with them. But I suppose you two are tired?" He looked at us hopefully—hopefully that we'd say no.

Zeph shook slightly. He sided with Kenda in wanting to stay the night. While I sympathized with how much overstimulation this must be for him, I also felt disgusted. We'd barely made any ground.

As we trudged back down the hall, I tried to steady my breathing, and thought of Pat. She'd tried to tell me to be careful. I hadn't listened.

At the same time, here I was.

The room we chose was an inconspicuous one: "suite" 4063. Callan and Kenda had discovered that it didn't have anyone in it. They insisted Zeph and I take the bed; I told them jokingly that I wasn't about it. Hugging him was one thing. Going from isolation to sleeping next to someone—even a mutually exhausted friend—was different.

The four of us dropped our meager supplies, and the day came to a close.

* * *

Before we'd undergone stasis, test subjects used to ask each other how one would be able to tell, aside from updates, when night fell over Aperture. No one had come up with a helpful answer. Now, up here, where there were holes for light to filter several thousand feet from the surface, it proved doable. Some plants possessed rare flowers that closed up as the shadows dimmed our surroundings. Turns out we'd chosen a room next to a hole-riddled graveyard of another suite; if I stared at the infrastructure, and the plants, this didn't seem as tangible.

"What's your birthday?" I asked Zeph. He was seated with his sheet of paper on the other side of a dim lamp. Our crumbling, cushioned chairs used to swivel; now, they crouched on rusted supports at odd angles.

Zeph's blue-eyed gaze moved across the paper. "March 1st, apparently." His voice floated quietly, as his eyes scanned the other information for what must have been the fifth time.

"That's coming up." Callan sat on a blanket by the empty closet. "About two days from now."

Zeph looked up. I felt a slight change in air pressure. For a moment, my best friend regarded Callan. "Okay. How do you know that?" Kenda came out of the bathroom to watch. "If today is…February 27th—really—how do you know that? And how much do you really know about the facility?"

Callan straightened. "We've had two years in near-solitary confinement to figure it out."

Zeph replied, "How are we supposed to trust that you're trying to lead us in the right direction?"

"…Excuse me?"

Zeph's jaw clenched. "Why should we trust you?"

Kenda took a step forward. "Hey."

"Sorry," he replied. "I'm a little sensitive about directions. Kinda went crazy for a year without them. All of our brothers and sisters have just been discovered deceased. And we hardly know you. So, I just want explanations before we proceed."

"Well," Kenda said, "before she woke up—for whatever reason that was—we'd been free to roam the facility. Just like you'd been down there."

"We saw different parts of it," Callan continued. "Manufacturing; Staff sections; Disposal areas…mostly the closest ones."

"So," I asked, "you learned how to get around? You know where these places are?"

Kenda nodded. "Somewhat."

"Any evidence to back any of that up?" Zeph leaned his elbows on his knees.

Callan glared. "That you have a printed out version of your personal records, courtesy of us. Anything more you need? Some pretzels? A phone call?"

"How about what year it is?" Zeph replied.

"Kid's got a point," Kenda said. "We don't know that."

Zeph faced her. "I'm…" He stared at his sheet. "Yeah—I'm twenty-six, so don't be calling anybody here a kid. We all survived—we've grown up in here."

"…You're right. And we need to preserve whoever we have left. There are still two who may be dead or trapped out there. We need to do this together."

Again, I felt reluctant about subscribing to an ideal goal like that: we camped now amongst ten thousand skeletons. And despite our knowledge of this underground, we knew anything about the state of the skeletons upstairs in the real universe.

Still, we read our sheets.

Callan Clay had been thirty-two; Kenda Roberts-Clay had been twenty-nine. Both had been awake long enough to have at least one birthday since. Callan's was September 7th. Kenda's was January 27th. Under the section entitled "Favorite Things/Hobbies," one of Kenda's listed items was candy. Callan enjoyed plane rides.

My birthday had been archived as May 25th. This meant I would still be twenty-one for another few months. Zeph had had his last birthday in the No Zone; this one would be celebrated with humans. He enjoyed Mexican food and the theater. At least, twenty-five-year-old, potential test subject Zephaniah had.

"Yep," he said later, into the darkness. "Still like Mexican food."

I smiled for some reason, and closed my eyes.

My dream had a beach. In Old Aperture, I'd dreamt frequently of the sun; but not about a shore.

The scratchiness of a towel lay between me and the sand. My calves down to my feet touched warm sediment. Above, the sun burned—almost too hot. I felt my face burning, and felt satisfaction. From a ways off, the provocative sound of water lapping the shore reached my ears. I knew it would be ice-cold and determined not to budge. From somewhere nearby, I heard a soda can hiss and crackle. All this without opening my eyes.

Zeph's laugh sounded. I shifted slightly, turned my face to the other side. My legs felt so warm…I shifted again, and realized I was wearing a bathing suit. _Well, that's not conducive to hiding all the bruises and scars. Oh well_ _…_

Then, the beach began to shake. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

My eyes snapped open. Darkness. Zeph's face above. Still cold. Our room wasn't shaking, but something near us was.

"She's moving the suites." Zeph's eyes were wide. "To flush us out. We have to move before she throws us." From across the room, a gentle _thump._ Callan packed his bag. I got up, and checked my supplies. Kenda strapped something to her makeshift pack. For a moment, I instinctively missed my mop bucket. _Too unwieldy anyway. Inconvenient._ In the darkness, the open door to the ever-lit hallway looked like another passage to heaven.

Callan took the lead position again. Half his face and body shone in the light. "Just like we talked about."

I grabbed the lamp from the desk, its wire coiled around, and followed. Zeph came last. Three suites down, in the hall, a door ripped off its hinges and fell with its chamber from the main structure. The screeching sounded horrible. I cringed.

Callan started running the opposite way, toward the door we'd left the day before. My feet picked up pace. Trying to shake the fatigue, I blinked several times and shook out my free arm. The dim light and sleepiness made it feel like an early hotel checkout. We'd be lucky to check out. Lucky to transcend the silent testing records of everyone in this annex whose doors we flew by. Maybe Callan liked flying; but right now it made me sick: to think about the implications, and realize that no effort to avoid this fate would be eternally successful.

We reached the exit hall. My heart pumped against the inside of my chest as Callan wrenched open the door. Without hesitating, he bowled forward and struck the newly-placed turret on the landing with half a shower curtain rod. Kenda, Zeph, and I followed him down the stairs. 4063 was on the fourth floor. Kenda and I moved to the front, she armed with shield-like portion of AC grate, and me with my lampstand. On the next landing stood about twenty turrets in multiple rows. Callan swung his bar and managed to knock over a short row. I threw my lamp, gritting my teeth, hoping it didn't break. Kenda charged forward and knocked over the remaining five or so, all of us desperately trying to avoid stray fire.

Zeph made a sound more of consternation than pain. We continued.

The next two landings went similarly. The thing about turrets is that they're dumb. And again, if you don't give them time to lock onto you before you knock them over, you're golden.

The problem arose as we approached the first floor. GLaDOS had placed a turret in a small alcove to the side, half-hidden behind a fake plant. It fired, and Zeph's leg crumpled. Callan shoved over the rest of his share of turrets and slammed his hands against the exit door. Kenda and I grabbed Zeph by the shoulders and moved toward it. The turret still fired. I felt Kenda buckle, but she stayed on her feet. We tumbled out, and Callan slammed the door. We collapsed against the outer wall of the Relaxation Vault.

The lack of further threat told me in that instant that GLaDOS must either truly not have eyes over every square inch of facility, or she must have been waiting for us to step into some other trap.

Zeph's faced twisted in pain, though he sat upright. Hardly wanting to see his leg, I made myself look down. Blood oozed from his thigh. Kenda clutched her arm near her shoulder. Callan was already examining her. "Here." He tossed me a shirt. "Do you know how to make a tourniquet? Or anything close?"

"Uh…" Rather than admit that I'd never taught myself, I focused on doing the best I could. Zeph cringed and grunted as I tied the fabric. Exhaling, I put a hand on his shoulder. "That was…crazy."

"Yeah?" His voice came out raw. "You think so?" I chuckled. Until he returned a smirk, I didn't feel comfortable having done so.

"Okay," Kenda said. We turned. Her voice held steadier than Zeph's, but she curled into herself a bit against the wall. "Let's head to the Companion Cube area."

Last night, we'd agreed on the semi-high-level manufacturing zone as our best bet for a checkpoint. It stood nearer the surface than anything else the couple knew; and if there was going to be a peaceful location in this hellhole, it would probably be that area. To get there, Callan had said we'd need to traverse the facility horizontally for a few hours. The turret manufacturing wing was around the same level as this Vault. After that, a big area that was a mystery. Then, we'd somehow head up. It was sketchy; but I felt glad to strategize with others.

"Are you sure you can move?" Callan asked. His voice sounded softer.

"Yeah, babe; it's just my arm." Kenda struggled to her feet. "Let's at least put ground behind us, and we can stop for a food break or something. Zeph, are you okay to walk?"

"Yeah." His teeth were gritted. "It's…ow. I think I can walk. Just one hit me."

Holding out an arm to him, I used my other to secure my pack on my shoulder. _Still have at least one box of bran bars. We'll be okay. We have to be._

Despite our injuries, I found myself almost smiling at the joint goal of heading further up—and going to the Companion Cube wing. I'd secretly wanted to visit it ever since the promise. As a rule, I'd tried not to think of the past while in Old Aperture. But now, with a new world open, I allowed myself that smile as I supported a grumbling Zeph down the passage.

Away from test chambers, we walked among plants and winding paths. I caught sight of a forlorn, wilted jumble of leaves on the wall. How long had it been here? Where was its sunlight? Zeph's eyes wandered eventually, too. I saw him arch his neck to gaze at the ceiling. Here, the metal held together better. Spider-webbed fractures in the alloy crawled their way above our heads. Our boots made dull _clunks._

 _Will GLaDOS send any other messages our way? Maybe she's occupied with finding the other two? Repairing the facility?_ Dealing with a "conscious' AI had never factored into my solo travels. It had always been me vs. the infrastructure. I hefted Zeph up a little. _But if the infrastructure is commanded by that sentience_ _…_ _who wants us dead_ _... How did the test subjects do it?_

Something shifted ahead. I jumped. It turned out to only be a plant that Callan had pushed out of his way, that fell from the ceiling with a soft rustle.

Zeph cleared his throat and put his weight on his good leg. "I think I've got it from here. Thanks."

"Are you sure?" I asked. Callan still held his wife's arm.

"Yeah." He broke contact. "It's just really annoying at this point. It'll help to walk."

"Okay…"

We continued down the dilapidated, aquarium-like passage until something in the back of my mind nagged at me. The portion of the modern facility that had been locked in my memory had been near her chamber…Wheatley had told me that.

A pang.

I held out a hand to Zeph. "Hey…Remember how we were talking downstairs about her chamber?"

"Yeah?"

"I think…part of the facility I remember going through was near there. And this…"

He looked ahead. "Seem familiar?"

"Yeah. A little bit. But maybe it's just…"

"Déjà vu," he finished. "Well, worth a shot. Hey. Callan."

The leader turned. "What's up?"

"Madison thinks this segment looks familiar. It might be near the AI chamber. Do you recognize it?"

Kenda replied, "Could be. We've never taken this route. But I do know the AI chamber is close to the center of everything."

Zeph asked, "Could there be a connection to it around here?"

"If there is," Callan responded, "we sure as hell better hope she doesn't have surveillance."

 _There'll be surveillance in the Companion Cube area,_ I wanted to say, but held my tongue. There was weighted silence for a few minutes. I wondered what Pat was doing, and thinking, at that moment, far below. I felt another mild pang.

"So, Zeph," Kenda said. "Tell us about your life before Aperture."

Callan raised his eyebrows at her.

"Sure you wanna go there?" Zeph asked.

"Yeah. What's not on that sheet that we should know about you?"

"Uhh…I used to be in theater at university."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of roles did you get?"

Silence. The soft _clumping_ of boots.

"I had one. I was a brother in _The Sound of Music."_

Kenda inhaled. "You can sing?"

"Ah—no." Zeph smirked, to my amusement. "Well…somewhat. But I never got any roles after that."

Callan turned. "Why not?"

Zeph shrugged. "The director of the program and I had creative differences."

"What does that mean?" Callan pressed.

"It means I thought outside the box, and everyone else was scared to leave the box. So they virtually fired me."

I asked, "Virtually?"

"They took away my agency in the…agency. I didn't have preference for roles, or a spot on the decision-making team. So they basically forced me to leave."

I frowned. "Sorry."

"It's okay." The side of his expression I could see against the opposite, dark wall appeared neutral. "I quit theater and got a job at a Mexican restaurant. It worked out."

"I bet that paid more," Callan said.

"Yeah."

I studied the back of Kenda's head. "What about you, Kenda? You never told us how you ended up meeting Callan."

She gave me a ghost of a smile. "That's a long one."

Zeph looked at her, too. "Can't be any longer than ours."

We came to a fork in the passage—one branch leading right from our position, and one going straight.

Kenda looked at her husband. "What do you think?"

Callan took a deep breath and let it out. Zeph and I alternatively stared down the paths. My internal compass wasn't as good as theirs. I'd memorized the route to my former goal: they'd had to guinea pig their way through this much larger wing. "I'd say straight," he responded. "Right would probably divert us away from the turret center; and it might actually put us closer to the center as well."

A chill ran up my spine. _Straight's fine by me._

We started walking again, and Kenda began sharing. "I was woken up a year after Callan." She gestured to Zeph. "About the same time you were, actually; though, I don't know how many days fell between us. Wheatley, of course, led me through the same routine we all went through—find the Portal gun and get out, with various levels of intermission."

For some reason, watching her face and eyes as she relayed her story helped me feel calm.

"See, back then, it wasn't about trying to save the facility, or us. When he woke up Callan, it was to see if humans were really all he'd heard they were. It was for some fun; some company, maybe." Involuntarily, I shook my head. "But the lightheartedness didn't last."

Callan jumped in. "Wheatley led her down a different path to the gun: tried to take her through the old testing track. She actually got the closest to it, if we can take anything he said at face value."

"We can't," I said.

Callan glanced at me.

Zeph spoke. "She's right. Everything he said was a lie. Even the places he led us weren't safe. He was completely insane."

"Either way," Kenda said, "we got all the way to the old Chamber 19, which won't mean anything to you guys, but it was the last chamber before…before the incinerator at the end of the track."

Zeph and I exchanged glances with saucer-sized eyes, then directed our attention back to her.

"I'm sorry." She held out a hand. "I didn't mean to drop that. I wanted to…there's…"

Zeph cut in. "It's okay." We passed a duct-like appendage on the right. "We needed to know. Madison and I aren't used to the main facility. We'll take any information you have."

Kenda nodded. "We got all the way to the incinerator, which we thought was disabled."

A trio of chills sprinted up my spine. Wheatley had bidden her go through the incinerator, claiming it was safe. Turns out, when cores meddle with power panels, anything can happen.

Kenda realized her mistake when her shoe soles began to feel hot and the air started to smell funny. She ran back the way she'd come; but the thing about the incinerator was that it was meant to be a one-way dump zone. The ledge was too high. This whole time, Wheatley had been frantically attempting to talk her out.

The only alternative was trying the other end for an assailable exit. This proved more effective, but only after the fire had started. Wheatley—being Wheatley—had panicked (this didn't surprise me, but I still felt disgust and horror as she relayed it). By the time he'd returned, Kenda had already clawed her way out and escaped.

Wheatley didn't know this. Wheatley assumed he'd been too slow. Wheatley, for the third of four known times in the last two years, abandoned his human charge.

For a while after she finished, everyone stayed quiet. We traversed more hallways; each one had a declining number of plants. Invisibly, GLaDOS was repairing her facility: patching holes, snuffing out any root of insubordinate life. We passed dwindling holes, more like prolonged scratches in the walls.

The same song that played below sounded, only slightly altered. A few different notes, the same melody. The same clicking, ancient support beams, holding up the same, rotating world. Wheatley hadn't done this to us, though I wasn't ready to forgive him. We'd created this prison we were sorely unable to escape; and we kept dreaming of a place beyond it; but all that met our eyes was more of the same. A weight pressed down on my chest.

Zeph's voice filled the elongated chamber. "It's ridiculous."

Everyone agreed by not saying anything. By staying close.

Kenda replied, "For a while, it got to my head more than it does."

"What helped?" I found myself asking, more like a drowning person inquires about a life preserver than out of curiosity.

Kenda gave me a smile and swung her backpack around, unzipped it. She handed me a faded leather book with two words on the cover that I'd never been familiar enough with to spurn it now at first sight. Zeph looked over my shoulder. "For real?" He sounded intrigued.

"For real."

"Some of us," Callan called, "are still processing it. There are things in there I don't agree with."

Running my hand across its cracked surface, I realized they must have found it in the Vault nightstand.

I flipped open the cover to the first pages; for the next half hour, Zeph and I alternated silently reading passages in different chunks. On a basic level, I felt thankful for something to take my mind off of the present.


End file.
